


Verses of Fortune

by Synchron



Series: Verses of Fortune [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assistant Reader, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, anecdotal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: You're not particularly religious, finding the Order's antiquated ways to be... well, antiquated, but these verses are ones you swear by.And they belong only to the two of you.--A series dedicated to brief moments during your tenure as Credo's assistant.
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Series: Verses of Fortune [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629340
Comments: 31
Kudos: 51





	1. Lost & Found

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is!! I'm putting this up... far earlier than I initially planned, but I've been swayed by some enablers recently, and here I am!! This here is a mirror to my Medley For Two series, but instead of being for Vergil, this one is centered around your relationship with Credo, a good lad who doesn't get nearly as much attention as he deserves. 😤
> 
> As with Medley, these one shots all take place within the same universe, but do not happen chronologically - they're simply little snippets and peeks into your life as his assistant. 😌 I'm honestly not expecting this to get much traction when this is based around a character with virtually no fanbase, but Credo has always been a feller I've liked, SO THIS ONE'S FOR YOU MY DUDE.
> 
> If you can scrounge up even a little enjoyment out of this series, then I'll be happy. 💖💖

# Verse 01: Lost & Found

You are swift and limber in all the ways a thief should be - slipping quietly through forced locks, wearing the darkness of night like a cloak, like it is yours to use as you please. For the most part it is. Like something of an old friend and ally. It can do you no wrong, and it shields you from those who would seek you out.

Currently, that would be two men in tall suits of armour - antiquated in the way they each carry a great lance, yet strangely sleek in design at the same time. Though physically imposing and thorough in their search, there is however, something off about the movements of these men, something unnatural in the way they scan the room from behind their visors. They are far too keen, and far too fast for their bulk, working and moving in perfect synchronisation despite a lack of any kind of communication. You've broken into Fortuna Castle numerous times before tonight - there is always something worth pillaging to sell back on the mainland - but they only ever have a skeleton crew working through the night and patrolling the halls. Vulnerable, tired people who would sooner jump at their own shadow. But these men are new. These men are relentless.

And they somehow keep finding you.

Their grip on your arms is surprisingly chilling, and completely rigid. They are cold and mechanical in both the way they move and go about their tasks, a clinical proficiency that seems far beyond a human's capabilities, and it's only at this proximity do you realise you can't even hear the hollow sounds of breathing coming from inside the armour. Even the clank of steel they make when they walk sounds eerily vacant, and it's here, surrounded on all sides by walls of steel and iron do you realise why - they're hauntingly silent because they are completely empty. Just what the hell is the deal with this island? No wonder people don't venture here...

The two suits of armour haul you upright, lifting you with their firm grip just in time for a man to turn the corner. You've seen him before on your previous trips to Fortuna, clad in all white with his suffocating air of authority about him. His face is stern, and although it is the middle of the night, his eyes are clear and intense, sharp and focused, just like the rest of him.

And that goatee is just as ridiculous as you remember.

"I see you've finally met your match." The man says, not yet focusing his eyes on you, not giving you the satisfaction of his attention. "For a first trial, they've exceeded all expectations - it seems we will need to invest more in the creation of the Biancos." His gaze travels up and out one of the windows in the hall as something wistful… perhaps even sad overtakes his expression, but it lasts only for a moment before it defaults back to a frown.

When he does finally look at you with a slight tilt of his head, you notice for the first time that his eyes are a striking green, backlit by the pale silver moonlight. But you do not stir. No matter the intensity of his gaze, you are capable of mirroring everything he can throw at you.

"How much did you see?"

Ah, he must be referring to the dank depths of the Castle where you were finally caught. Where the… what did he call them, the Biancos(?) were activated and deployed, charging forth from blackened chambers with their lances already primed, levelled and ready. You remember seeing cages, hearing hisses and… even cries of remorse. Ones that were distinctly human. You didn't, or perhaps _weren't_ able to venture any further than that, chased away by your two captors immediately afterwards, but you'd wager seeing that much alone warrants a severe punishment if the Order's General is the one dealing with you - you're not stupid, after all. So you don't answer him. The man watches you for another short moment, understanding your decision to be stubborn. He's no fool either.

You both merely think the other is.

"I don't think you quite understand the gravity of your situation. Having seen even the most minor extents of our work here, you cannot be allowed to return to the mainland." He pauses, waiting for any sort of reaction from you - a twitch, a flinch, anything he can use to call out your bluff - but outside of your stony visage, he receives nothing. Are you not worried? Do you have nothing to lose? Nothing to live for over there? He can't tell for sure, but he thinks he knows, because at the very least, he recognises a mask when he sees one. He continues, undeterred. "Your options are limited, and I would suggest cooperation if you held any interest in self preservation."

"You'd be better off killing me." Finally, you speak, and it's with as much ire as you can currently muster in your captive state. But where you're expecting to be met with a humourless laugh, the man before you only looks rueful.

"Believe me when I tell you that that would be preferable. But Agnus would not let you die until he has taken every last scrap of knowledge you can give him. Until you are nothing but a husk." He doesn't explain any more than that, and though the name means nothing to you, the implications wash a chill over you nonetheless. It could very well be a bluff - his Good Cop versus this absent Agnus' Bad Cop - it would be a prime moment to manipulate you in such a way, yet there's something so… painfully honest in the way this man with the ridiculous goatee presents himself. His posture is authoritative, but there are twitches in his expression, minor as they are, that give himself away.

...he really is a fool.

"So if you won't let me go, and if you won't kill me, then what do you propose? Indefinite confinement?" You watch as the man paces back and forth as he thinks. "You're an idiot if you think I won't get out."

"Then you would face the full wrath of the Biancos."

"These tin cans?" You find it in you to huff out a snort. Defiant until the end. "Would be better than dying in a cell."

"There is another alternative." The man begins, voice steeped in caution. He regards the two suits of armour standing on either side of you, still firmly gripping your forearms in one cold gauntlet each. A flicker of emotion flashes across his eyes, calculating, but hopeful. And then with a wave of his hand, he dismisses them. They don't question his decision, obeying without hesitance or reluctance, both simultaneously releasing their hold on you and letting you stand on your own two feet. The blood rushes back into both your hands at once, and you shake off the tingle that ensues, sparing a glance up at your two captors, but they pay you no heed as if you no longer exist to them. Their shields are up, and their lances lie still, awaiting their next orders in silence.

The man in white with the swept back hair waits, completely still. Whether for you to run, or to speak, you aren't sure, but either way, he is not poised for action, and you… you can't really understand why. For some reason, it bothers you, not knowing the motives of this man. For the most part, every one you've dealt with prior has been easy to read, motivated by either money or more physical interests. Of course, that's par for the course when trading on the black market - it would be harder to find people who _don't_ fall into that mould. But this one? You can't get a proper read on him. His eyes are intense and focused, but his intentions remain so unclear to you, and a man that you don't understand is a man you cannot trust.

And yet…

Feeling a surge of bravery, one fuelled by frustration borne of that very conflict, you shove at the armour on either side of you to give yourself more space with a grunt. To your surprise, they allow it, stepping to the side so that you have your personal space returned to you before returning to their motionless, dormant states. Then squaring your shoulders, you force them back and raise your chin up high, unafraid even though you are outsized and vastly outnumbered.

" _Well?_ "

The man cocks an eyebrow, imperceptibly cants his head. Perhaps he's surprised at your actions, but you can't really tell from the scant cues that he's giving you. "You would remain under my watch, free to move about, yet forced to remain within my proximity at all times. Should you attempt to escape, I will not stop the Bianco's pursuit."

"So I'm going from being in a cell, to being on a leash. That's kinky." The last sentence was an impromptu afterthought, one designed to incite a reaction, to unravel the layers of your opponent, but all you get is a tired frown.

It seems neither of you are willing to play into the other's hand.

"Would it not be better than 'dying in a cell'?" He asks, a genuine question, if not steeped in a little sarcasm. Whatever trace of humour had been present in his tone fades immediately when he breathes out in a slow exhale, almost a sigh, really. Then that sorrowful tint returns to the green of his eyes.

"Take the offer. Don't make this any easier for him."

* * *

You feel a hand grasp your shoulder to gently awaken you. Your desk isn't the most comfortable place for a nap, but considering the time, your workload, the dim lighting of the office, you're not surprised you eventually dozed off. Though it takes an extra few seconds for your vision to unblur, for the fog of sleep to lift, you know that it's Credo who stands by your chair, and when he sees he has your attention, he retracts his hand and returns to his full height, speaking gently as if he still doesn't want to disturb you.

"I told you it wasn't necessary to wait."

Easing yourself back into a sitting position, you stretch your arms in front of you and twist in your seat, feeling a series of cracks and pops down your spine. You can't have dozed off for more than twenty minutes, and yet your body is already so stiff. Credo's warnings to you about not napping at your desk weren't for naught.

"There were some unplanned changes to tomorrow's scheduling I wanted to go over with you before I left." Reaching forward, you pull several fliers toward you, thumbing through them to ensure everything is present before you hand them off to your superior. "I thought I would save the last minute hassle of accommodating the changes in the morning"

Wordlessly, Credo skims the papers in his hands, silently accepting that you've made a valid point - mornings are enough of a mad rush as they are when the new trainees are more keen on fooling around than training, and so scrambling to adjust to last minute changes is something he'd rather avoid entirely. He clicks his tongue when he comes across one particular change, somewhat annoyed that there's been yet another delay in a shipment of special ore from the mainland. Agnus will not be pleased, and the mere thought of having to appease the man already has the beginnings of a headache forming just behind his eyes. It's a bridge he will cross when he gets to it however, inevitable as it is. For now, he has other matters to attend to.

"You were mumbling in your sleep." He tells you, flipping to the next page of what will no doubt be another string of inconveniences. "A bad dream?"

"Hmm?" Though you'd heard him the first time, your response is instinctive, automatic. Uttered to give you a moment to think. You further bolster this by rising out of your chair to straighten out the last few folders that sit on your desk - should you tell him the truth? He's always had a knack for knowing when you're withholding the truth from him… best cut out the middleman. "No... it was about the circumstances of our meeting."

Blinking in surprise, Credo angles his head up towards the ceiling, perhaps a little reminiscent himself. He hums quietly, allowing himself a brief smile before he returns his attention to the papers in his hands. "Mm… so it _was_ a bad dream." He hears you bark out a short laugh, watches from out the corner of his eye as you wryly shake your head, feels something warm in his chest. "Your constant forward momentum is something I've come to rely on - it's rare that you would reminisce of the past."

Standing there on opposite sides of your chair, you watch him for a moment, head tilted. It's silent between the both of you for a while, but when you do finally speak, it isn't to address his last statement. Your dream is still far too fresh in your mind. "Thank you, Sir."

With a short and concise tap upon your desk, Credo straightens out the papers in his hand and then neatly returns them to your workspace. "For…?"

"For many things." You declare. "For putting me where I am today. For allowing me to flourish. For giving me a second chance."

Though you know he isn't bashful, he does look down for a short second before he casts his eyes around the rest of his office - a large and rather grand room, lined with trophies of his deeds, demons that he's killed, gifts from other Order members and civilians alike… then back down to your desk, pushed up against the wall hastily, almost haphazardly and wherever it would fit, like it was an afterthought. A last minute decision. He didn't count on ever having an assistant, much less one that he is now so grateful to have.

"I did only one of those things." He means the latter, specifically. "All I did was present you an opportunity - however far you have come is the result of your own persistence. You could just as easily have remained as you were, brash and unruly, yet you chose to be here. You _chose_ to wait after hours to inform me of matters that could have waited until morning - that isn't my doing."

The smile that overtakes your features is serene and patient. For all of his accomplishments, he takes so little credit for them, but you're used to this behaviour from him by now. You suppose it's how he's come to be so respected in the city despite his outlandish (to many, if not _all_ of Fortuna's residents) decisions to harbour outsiders. Neither you nor Nero have made things easy for him, yet he takes them all in stride, blaming nobody but the strict doctrines that dictate such closed-mindedness. Both you and Nero know you can never fully repay him for the kindness he's shown the two of you.

"Only because I know you're a slow starter in the mornings, Sir." A sense of mischief colours your tone. You figure if Credo can be deliberately obtuse, then so can you. "Can't have the Supreme General of the Holy Knights lagging behind. That would be bad for morale."

Playing along, Credo smiles. "And would be a poor reflection on your role as my assistant - your reputation would be more at stake than mine."

"A fair point." You both take a short moment to quietly laugh, and then you bow your head. "Good night, Sir. I'll see you in the morning."

"If you're willing to wait a few more minutes, I can walk you home." Credo glances up at the clock on the wall, the crease between his brows deepening when he realises just how late it is. "As an apology for keeping you here so long past dusk."

"Sure," you say, perching upon the edge of your desk, and flashing him a knowing smile.

"When have I ever turned down an offer from you?"


	2. Rhythm & Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Me:** This series is mostly going to be cute and soft and fluffy. :)
> 
> **Me, literally one chapter later:** *Kicks open door, walks in, drops sexual tension onto the floor and jetpacks out*
> 
> ...h-hello everynyan.... I don't know how this happened, but it did, so here I am..!? 😭😭

# Verse 02: Rhythm & Timing

The open courtyard in the middle of Fortuna Castle is the usual training ground for new and veteran members alike to test their mettle and hone their skills. With lines of wooden dummies, racks of different practice weapons, mats, punching bags, and even a little station to cool off afterwards, it is generally a rowdy and even rambunctious place through the day, filled with a rotation of squads and teams taking part in training. But tonight, with the moon directly overhead, long after hours where only a skeleton crew remain over the course of the night, a pair of voices echo through the courtyard, punctuated by the sounds of clashing wooden training swords. Two people have snuck into storage to retrieve a pair of weapons, and although their enthusiasm for furthering their skills ought to be commended, they are still technically breaking the rules. But who in their right mind would even _think_ about challenging the Supreme General of the Holy Knights on his decisions? Who he decides to train after hours is purely his business. At the very least, that is what the patrol whisper to one another before hurrying away, deciding that tonight, discretion is the better part of valour.

The offer to properly train you had come rather suddenly after he'd witnessed a rather unsavoury exchange between yourself and some of the other administrative workers of the Order. It came as no surprise to Credo that many would be unhappy with his decision to harbour yet another outsider, and while he is confident in your ability to not let it affect you in your day-to-day workings, a sentiment that unfortunately fell short of Nero, his concern primarily lies in the inevitable escalation of hostility towards something a little more physical, especially with the other Holy Knights. Nero had faced similar trials until he properly learned to channel his anger into a sword, and so he hopes to take a similar route with you. Though you are almost always working in his proximity, there are times where his presence is required elsewhere, and so being able to stand on equal footing with the followers of the Order, both intellectually _and_ physically ought to serve as a deterrence to violence. One sword keeps another in the sheath, after all.

Even if that sword is, at least for the moment, one made of wood.

The practice sword is heavy in your hands, designed exactly so to be similar in weight to the real thing, and though you are no slouch, your preferred weapons in your previous line of work fell more into the category of pistols - swordplay was never your forte. But who could blame you? You come from the mainland where life isn't so antiquated, where the people aren't so backwards. Swords are a relic of the past, they aren't supposed to have any bearing in modern times outside of ritualistic purposes, yet here you are, on an island that uses nothing _but_ swords. Here you are, with one in your hand. Here you are, standing across from the man heralded by many as Fortuna's most skilled swordsman.

" _Focus_."

Credo's voice cuts through your thoughts like a finely honed blade, incisive and sharp. Firm and commanding. He treats you with no more compassion than he does with those he trains on a daily basis, and though you've always known he is strict on his recruits - you have witnessed as much yourself - to be on the receiving end of it is another thing entirely. But this is precisely how he's garnered the respect of his peers both above and below him in the Order's chain of command, intuitively understanding the delicate balance between being foolishly kind, and the firm, guiding hand that Fortuna has come to expect him to be. Credo is the very definition of poise before you - back straight, stance ready, and he swings his own practice sword in only one hand, handling its weight as if it were nothing. His movements are effortless and fluid... so light despite his size. This too, is how he rose to where he is today.

"Every second spent idle is another opening to exploit."

There is sweat rolling down your temple, dotting the skin you've bared to the moonlight. It's a testament to how hard you've been pushing yourself tonight. As well as last night. And the night before that. Yet you don't feel yourself improving. It's frustrating when you previously prided yourself on being a quick study, and utterly maddening in how he can still see through every single feint as though he's seen it a million times before. Given his reputation, the time he has put into shaping the Order into what it is today, perhaps he has. You inhale a deep breath through your nose in an attempt to even out your breaths and temper the flow of blood through your veins, anything to try to match the level of calm and grace that your opponent exudes with a baffling ease. Your eyes follow his path as he strafes around you, far too casual and at ease in the face of the coiled spring that is your tension. Compared to your sweaty, sagging form, Credo is completely and utterly unphased. Not by the late nights, not by your attempts to scrape together an understanding of swordplay at such short notice, and certainly not by an unfamiliar charge that crackles in the air between you.

"No single form, no one swordsman is infallible. Speed is often the downfall of pure strength. A bold and brash attack can, at times, outwit honed skill and technique. But there are certain fundamentals that form the basis of every swordsman's repertoire - rhythm, timing, footwork, an understanding of your weapon... And stance--" without warning, the sword in Credo's hand snaps forward, clipping you on your calf. The pain is biting and immediate, sure to leave a mark and coursing up your leg like a current of electricity. The very impact nearly has you toppling right over had you not caught yourself at the last second. But rather than lift away, the wooden blade against your leg shifts to the opposite side of your calf, where Credo taps at your heel, impatient and unimpressed, forcing your legs further apart. The blunt edge continues to tap, tap, tap until your boot slides through the dirt. Until he's satisfied with what he sees. Then the blade slowly slides up the length of your leg where he taps once more, and rather insistently against your knee. "Keep your knees bent, and your feet, at minimum, shoulder width apart at all times. This will lower your center of gravity - make it more difficult for you to be knocked off balance." His sword remains motionless against your leg for one second too long, the contact, indirect and unassuming as it is, feeling far too intimate even though he's done the same thing to countless others before you. His eyes bore into yours with a certain intent that he blinks away before it permanently dyes the green hue of his eyes.

Then the presence of his sword against you is gone too. Just as suddenly. Just as rushed.

He's thankful that you don't seem to notice.

You clench your jaw, forcing back another wave of frustration (and the lingering, tingling pain from when he clipped you earlier) with another series of deep breaths, letting it manifest on the surface of your being as no more than a tightening of your expression. You're not mad at _him_. In fact, despite how blunt and unforgiving they are, his methods are quite effective as you've always responded well to first hand experience as a primary teacher. Your anger then comes from the fact that you are not excelling at the rate that you're used to. You can't really be blamed when this is only your third day in learning how to wield a foreign weapon, the concepts and foundations of such more foreign still, yet that doesn't justify the utter lack of progress in your mind. Perhaps all the more because you're being personally tutored by Fortuna's best - you're not only being weighed against your own expectations, but of his as well.

And you're not quite sure which is more daunting.

"The essence of swordplay is rhythm and timing, but contrary to what many believe, swordplay is not a dance." You don't know whether he's deliberately holding back on his strikes, taking it easy on you when you've seen him dart forward so much faster than this, but all the same, you react only in the last second, deflecting an oncoming blow with a crack of wood. But he doesn't let up there. Credo swings again, going for your opposite side, and again, you only barely meet him. The courtyard is filled with a litany of sharp claps of wood on wood as you _only just_ hold yourself together under his relentless barrage. But on each strike, you begin to feel it - a steady beat that begins to resonate within you, drowning out the almost painful rattle that courses up your arm on each deflection. Little by little, you _feel_ rather than consciously _know_ the speed of his movements, meeting each successive strike a fraction of a second earlier than the last. A new surge of adrenaline floods your body at the realisation, so light, almost giddy with the thrill of progress. So much that you don't quite register the words that are still falling from your Captain's lips as he continues his explanation.

_Crack!_

"You are not seeking to match your rhythm with that of your enemy's. That is a waste of time and energy - the longer you draw out a match, the further victory slips from you."

_Crack!_

"Establish a rhythm with your opponent--"

_Crack!_ You swear the blade in your hand is about to splinter and break.

"And when they are comfortable--"

By now, your arms are moving automatically, angling your practice sword across your body to deflect what should be another oncoming blow, yet silence and a peculiar stillness in your arm is all you are met with. Puzzled, and instantly feeling your stomach drop, your eyes dart upwards where you catch a flash of something in your superior's eyes before his arm swings one final time as the world seemingly comes to a complete stop.

"You subvert their expectations."

His blade arcs through the air, catching against yours. You were expecting that much, but not from this angle, not from the side you're not currently guarding. The blade slides down the length of your own, and just as he reaches the sword's guard, Credo twists his hand, finding just the right balance between force and leverage to wrench your sword from your grip. It spins in rapid circles through the air, clattering onto the grass somewhere behind you, and in your scrabble to stagger backwards and thus away from the threat that suddenly looms so much larger before you now that your hands are empty, you feel yourself stumble.

The hand that sits tucked at Credo's back finally moves, snapping forward to grab a hold of your arm, while the other, still holding his sword, circles you to rest at your back as he steps into you. He's impossibly close like this, enough that you can almost feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, controlled and even, the proximity emphasising just how much larger, taller and broader than you he is. But his expression remains stern, eyes piercing.

Is it fear that has your legs suddenly feeling numb?

"The final foundation of this discipline is knowing your weapon's range--" He leans a little closer to emphasise his point, and you chalk the resounding thud in your chest up to fleeting adrenaline. The lump that you forcefully swallow because your mouth is suddenly dry is brushed off for the same reason. "--and never allowing your opponent to enter it."

Credo pulls back, but only just enough to allow him the room to skim his eyes down your form and to your booted feet, where, with a distinct furrowing of his brow and an annoyed click of his tongue, he wedges his knee between your legs, nudging them apart once more.

"I said to keep them apart."

Unwittingly, your pulse begins to race at the innocuous phrase, and you're suddenly so acutely aware of every point of contact between you; the very tips of his fingers pressing into your back, spread so wide to provide you the most support; the hand that grips your arm, large enough that his fingers curl all the way around; his leg between yours…

Maybe Credo sees the change in the colour of your eyes, realises a little too late that he is stoking something to life that ought to remain unkindled, pushing up against unintended boundaries, but he jerks backwards from you with a sharp inhale of breath, pivoting on his heel to face away from you in the same motion. He closes his eyes, banishes the lingering memory of your damp skin by squeezing down on the sword in his hand. Only when his pulse returns to normal, when he is certain that all traces of colour in his cheeks has faded does he turn to face you again. With his expression set, gaze steady, he nods in the direction of your fallen sword, and falls back into his usual rhythm.

"Pick up your sword." He tells you, in a voice that's a touch quieter than it was mere moments ago.

With your chest still feeling so light, you swallow thickly, mirror his resolve to ~~ignore~~ move on, and obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! 💖💖


	3. Vice & Virtue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm back on my Credo bullshit, but I honestly never left. 😔✊

# Verse 03: Vice & Virtue

At a first glance, one cannot be blamed for thinking the residents of Fortuna to be meek and demure in nature. They go about their lives in a quiet tranquility, enjoying the safety of routine. They greet each other in the mornings, attend their sermons together, and go about their daily lives seemingly in peace. If you keep your head down and treat them with respect, you've found they will, for the most part (and even if begrudgingly), return the sentiment. But there are a few around you who seek to actively give you grief, muttering snide remarks loud enough for you to hear as you pass in the hallways. One particularly cunning (yet common, according to Credo) prank was an anonymous saboteur, with the victim being your newly approved Durandal; a sprinkle of sugar into your sword's fuel tank went on to block the fuel injectors and requirming immediate repairs. A rather harmless prank within the safety of Headquarters, but potentially debilitating if discovered while in the field. A choking, struggling Durandal just becomes a regular sword (if you're lucky), and in the face of the more ferocious demons that are frequently seen around Fortuna, it becomes a matter of life or death.

And so one cannot blame you for refusing to take such petty behaviour lying down. Credo had given you sword lessons to deter physical violence, but what can be done about sabotage and disparage? Why, mockery of their beloved religion, of course. It's pettiness in equal measure, but when they call you things like "Credo's whore" behind your back (and sometimes even within ear shot), saying you slept your way to a prestigious position even though you are a filthy outsider, you find your patience growing thinner every time you pass through a room only for it to fall silent, save for crude whispers hidden behind hands. Not even Credo dares to hold it against you, and you hold a sliver of pride within your chest over that fact.

Anybody else would have been severely reprimanded; Sparda's legacy is something that Fortunans hold close to their hearts, and for someone associated with such a high ranking officer to criticise not only their religion, but also their way of life, well… it reflects poorly on the Order as a whole. Very poorly. But why should you really care? You have no stake in their ridiculous religion. You are here only because the alternative is imprisonment, and there has yet to be an official mandate regarding your behaviour anyway. If nobody has approached you to reprimand your denigration, then how bad can it possibly be? Unless of course, this is a hidden perk of being the right hand of someone so esteemed.

How could you choose isolation over something like that?

"I know this is difficult..." Credo says to you one afternoon. The two of you are walking side by side through Headquarters, called to an impromptu meeting. One that he'd mentioned your presence wasn't necessary for, but you'd insisted upon it. Better in there with him than out here with people itching to pick a fight with the other outcast of the island. Hell, you'd vastly prefer the company of demons to some of the workers in this building because at least Assaults can be dealt with permanently; humans possess the capacity to be much more insidious and venomous than anything that could come out of a hell gate. "But I need you to keep calm. Lashing out in return solves nothing."

"That's easy for you to say, Captain." You do little to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone, going so far as to let it cloud your expression as you walk. There are eyes following you even here, tongues held still behind their teeth only because Credo is by your side. But his presence doesn't keep them from looking, and more often than not, words not spoken can be just as caustic as a comment spat with scorn. "Everybody here respects you; the only reason the cowards aren't saying anything is because you're here." That last part is spoken with in a deliberate pitch, a specific volume easily overheard that creates a palpable tension. Almost like an open declaration of war.

You hear Credo sigh, and even that sounds dignified when coming from him. "I understand your frustration. I've seen it before. But if you want to be better than them, then hold your head high and look forward."

"You mean take the moral high ground?" You snort. Those words sound so empty to you - a hollow gesture put forth only because it's what someone is _supposed_ to say in this situation. "Why can't you just admit that I'm a stain on your reputation? Get mad at me, because apparently nobody else has the balls to do anything about it." His eyes narrow, and the pause that follows is telling of something that he deliberately keeps locked behind a clenched jaw; words that he feels you need not hear. When he does eventually relax, you get the distinct feeling that he's reaching for something else instead, and that's because he is.

"That isn't how I was raised." Your mouth opens, ready to argue, but with a half raised hand, Credo silences you as you come to a stop just outside of Sanctus' quarters. "Wait out here."

"But I–"

" _You are to wait here._ " He rarely takes a tone with you, no matter how often or how vehemently you butt heads with him, but there is an undeniable edge in his voice that belies a sense of pleading. You're still puzzling it out, surprise overtaking your features, when he, taking your silence to mean compliance, turns on his heel to head inside on his own, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.

There's a part of you that's frustrated, furious even, that he's left you behind when his condition upon your inception under his wing was precisely that he _wouldn't_.

You don't know why it bothers you so much.

But you plan on entering anyway, risking insubordination mostly out of spite. Your hand hovers over the door handle, primed to turn it to enter, before you hear a distinctive angry cry from within. It's the voice of the Order's Chief Alchemist. Though you've only met the hulking man a small handful of times before, you'd recognise that stutter of his anywhere - there is, after all, only one person you know of that lives so thoroughly and entirely up his own arse.

And on this island, that's saying something.

"Learn how to c-c-control your conniving strumpet!!"

Still poised in midair over the handle, your hand clenches into a fist. Every part of you, filled with an affronted pride, wants nothing more than to burst into the room, all consequences be damned. And yet you remain in place, body stock still with bated breath.

More than your desire to see where this conversation goes, more than wanting more fuel thrown upon a fire you've kindled with spite and anger, you find that seeing how Credo responds to your disgraced honour to be of much more importance. And so, after throwing cautionary glances over both shoulders, checking for any other eavesdroppers, you slide forward half a step and press one ear to the door.

If you're absolutely honest with yourself, this sort of behaviour fills you with a sense of nostalgia; you've never told anybody before (in part due to the fact you don't have anybody _to_ tell), but there are certain aspects of your old life, old habits and routines, that you miss. Being a thief, being on the prowl, slinking through hallways undetected, all of it was exhilarating for you. And though it's on a much smaller scale, listening in on conversations you ought not to be brings you back to those distant halcyon days.

"This quarter has not only turned the lowest number of new recruits, but morale among existing members is at an a-all time low!!"

You can picture it now, him stalking in slow circles around the room, back hunched in that unsettling way, disguising his true size. And where is Credo in all of this? Oddly enough, that's something you struggle to envision.

"I _**require**_ more battle data!" Agnus is becoming more testy now, voice rising not only in volume, but intensity too, swathed in a thick layer of venom. "The Biancos cannot be perfected without it, and you are _impeding_ our progress by harbouring that ungrateful f-f–"

" _I understand your concerns._ " You can only imagine how many times Credo has had to face Agnus' fury head on for him to respond with such patience. "We are all eager to see the true potential of your... suits of armour." In response to such a backhanded comment about his precious Biancos, you can audibly hear Agnus seethe and bristle, like the agitated chittering of a provoked insect. "But this time of year has always been slow - registrations will pick up again after the Festival. That has always been the case."

"What Agnus means to say," Sanctus calmly interjects, "is that we would perhaps see an increase in numbers sooner were you to… release your prisoner."

His _prisoner_.

Your body tenses, bridling with a simmering rage. How _dare_ he refer to you like that?!

"With all due respect, she is my _assistant_ , Your Holiness."

"All the same, we would rather her opinions about our humble way of life here be silenced."

"She just needs more time to adjust–"

"More time?!" In comparison to Credo and Sanctus, Agnus is explosive and irritable. How he rose to such an important position when he's clearly abrasive is beyond you; the Order must prioritise one's ability over one's amiability when reviewing applicants. Or perhaps this is simply the reason why his very existence is known only to a select few? Far be it from you to be able to say for certain. "When will you learn that someone like her will never change? She is a _mainlander_ , and you carry upon your shoulders a reputation that reflects upon the rest of us. When will you cease in taking the blame on her behalf?"

Hearing those words, your stomach begins to twist, clenching and churning with something ice cold. It spreads to the rest of you until you jerk away from the door, stumbling backwards a few paces, your own feet weighed down by the realisation of just _why_ you've gotten off scot free for all of this time.

It's because he's been taking the heat on your behalf. And not once did he lead on to you about it. Not once did he indicate through gesture or expression, large or small, just what taking you under his wing would burden him with.

Why?

_"That isn't how I was raised."_

His words ring in your ears. A hollow taunt that bounces and echoes until you realise the feeling brewing in your gut, chilling you to the bone, is guilt. And it's a heavier sensation than you remember it ever being.

Inside Sanctus' quarter's, Agnus continues with his tirade. "If you desire for her to be treated as one of us, then let her also be judged as one of us - let her face consequences!"

" _You will not intrude on my jurisdiction."_ Credo's tone is firmer now, the iridescent sheen of a sharp edge peeking through the gaps of his composure. "For as long as I am the Supreme General, for as long as she remains under my care, none may judge her but me. This is not the first time I have been subjected to the scrutiny of my so-called peers, and like with Nero, I will oversee all…"

You lose track of the conversation at that point, having stumbled far enough from the door that the exchange becomes indistinguishable from the background noise that fills the rest of the building. At your side, your hand is balled into a fist, but not out of anger this time, no. It's anguish that fills you in this moment; a confusing amalgamation of emotions that are all at once foreign and familiar. You recognise guilt, a touch of loneliness, remorse, the notion that Credo is a foolishly naive man...

...and that maybe you dislike him a little less because of it.  
  


* * *

  
When Credo excuses himself from the meeting with a low bow at his waist and one final sidelong glance at Agnus from out the corner of his eye, he finds you across the hall from the door, back turned and facing the window, gazing down at the courtyard.

At the very least, he thinks, you stayed put as he'd ask you to.

"I would have assumed you'd have run off." He doesn't put on any airs when he talks to you, and yet what he'd said is coated in neither vitriol nor malice. Just a plain honesty. "I'm relieved you didn't." He watches your head lower before you half turn to greet him, expression unexpectedly solemn.

"I suppose I am too." Credo's confused blink doesn't deter you from your cryptic commentary; if you'd left as he was expecting you to, you'd never have learned just _how_ patient a man he is. How genteel and foolish. If you'd left, you'd still think those qualities of his were bad things.

"I can be better."

Whether or not, in that moment, Credo understands what you'd overheard, his countenance remains unchanged, except for a slight softening at the corners of his eyes.

"I'll hold you to that."


	4. Flocks & Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all of that Credo thirst I've been feeling for the past... many many weeks has culminated in this lil' update to Verses...! And... doesn't even directly feature Credo at all. And isn't even remotely thirsty. MAKES PERFECT SENSE, DON'T IT?
> 
> Yeah idk. But this is a prompt for this series that I've been sitting on for a while, that focuses a little more on Nero and assistant!reader!! I'd always wondered how he dealt with his arm turning in canon, and who he might have turned to for help the day that it happened, so here's my own little take on it in this universe!! ✨ Hope y'all like it!! 💖💖
> 
> Also I'm lowkey (read: highkey) happy that I managed to tie in a vague Devil's Pact reference in there. 👀

# Verse 04: Flocks & Feathers

It's rather unusual for Nero to call upon you for anything. The two of you get along well enough, but like you, life on this island has taught him how to be independent. How to get by without using anybody else as a crutch.

And yet here he is, standing outside your home, covered in streaks of dried demon blood and other bits that don't belong outside of one's body. He'd gone MIA some time after the demon attack in the early afternoon, and after he dropped Kyrie and the kids off at the infirmary to be checked on, nobody had heard anything from him. Except for you now, far too many hours later, well after the sun has sunk below the horizon.

"Nero!" you hiss his name in a hushed, harsh whisper, relief washing over you like churning waves; a tumult of emotions that froth and seethe. "Where have you been?! Credo is still out there loo–"

He says nothing as he shoulders past you, letting himself into your home with a quiet urgency you've never seen in him before. He doesn't seem to be hurt; nothing in his stride indicates he's been injured, and yet his coat is bundled over his right arm and held close to his body, protected and handled as if it were glass. He leans halfway out your door, does one final scan up and down the street - what he's checking for, you can't say - before he nudges it closed with his boot, and finally, _finally_ deflates.

His shoulders sag as he crumples against your door, letting out, at long last, some of the stress he's been carrying around with him since this morning.

"Sorry this is out of the blue, I just–" his voice carries hints of uncertainty, quivering here and there as if the only thing holding him up at the moment is your door at his back, "I don't know who else I can talk to about this."

The conversation is going too fast for you, leaving too many things unanswered before the page turns upon new questions. "Talk about what? Did you get hurt? Does Credo know you're here?"

Nero shakes his head in answer, but to which question he's replying to, you can't be sure. You reach for him, taking a step forward to try to place a hand on his shoulder, but he shrinks away from you, flinching so hard and so firmly that your door creaks on its hinges. Every muscle in his body is bridling with tension like a coiled spring, a precarious and dangerous balance of fight-or-flight. And you don't miss the hand he's keeping on your door handle either, fingers poised, ready to turn it to bolt the very second he feels that he has to.

So you take a step back, try to sound as soothing as you can. But you're no Kyrie - for you, it takes a conscious effort. "Nero, what's going on?"

His eyes close, brow furrowing as reluctance clouds his expression. You can see sweat begin to dot on his skin, giving it a lustre that only highlights just how pale he looks. How absolutely sick to his stomach he is. "Please don't tell anyone."

You give him a wan smile, trying to fill it with the lively mischief he's normally brimming with, but it feels so flat - you don't think your poor attempt would fool even you. "Who do I have to tell? Neither of us really have friends on this island - we're birds of the same feather, you know that."

Nero opens his eyes again, and when they turn towards you, between hesitant, erratic blinks and brief flickers to your floor, they're filled with uncertainty; they're the eyes of a lost child. Nero is young, even to you, with a boyish, youthful charm, and a wit that has no place on this island, but not once have you ever thought of him as a child. Not until he looks at you with those eyes. "I mean Credo, too. He doesn't– he can't–"

That gives you pause, casts one ripple of doubt in the pool of your thoughts that requires an extra few seconds to quell. Nero is so many things; brash, brazen, stubborn, hot headed… but of all of his perceived negative qualities, he never has, and never _will_ be one to lie. Not about his insecurities, nor his disdain for whom he believes to be a false god, and though shy, certainly not about his mounting feelings for Kyrie either. Everything that Nero says and does comes from a place of sincerity and earnesty, for better or for worse.

But now here he is, asking you to keep a secret even from his mentor, and the man you'd pledged your loyalty to. Maybe under other circumstances, you'd feel honoured that he would seek you out, but when he looks so exhausted, covered in blood and sweat and grime, and shaken down to his bones, your stomach only twists into knots.

"If you don't want me to say anything, then I won't. Okay?"

Silence.

But his eyes are watchful, searching your face for the tells of treachery and deceit that he sees in everybody else. But on you, on Kyrie, on Credo, that trait is forever absent. Some of the strain fades from his face, his expression relaxing enough that when you tentatively reach for him again, he lets your hand wrap around his arm to rub in soothing motions.

"You can talk to me."

It's faint, hardly noticeable, but he nods in a way that feels volatile - jerky and nervous. But if nothing else, it's a sign that you're getting through to him.

With jittery fingers and a stubborn lump in his throat that tastes faintly of bile, Nero releases the door handle from his sweaty grip, returning it to his hastily swaddled right arm. He still holds it close to his body, sheltering it within himself, and looking at how uncertainly he handles it, you realise your prior observation was a severe misunderstanding. He isn't protecting it.

He's afraid of it.

"Please don't freak out."

You mirror his gulp, a foreboding trepidation chilling your blood as he slowly unwraps it. A faint glow seeps through the fabric of his coat the more layers he unfurls, until it drops off his arm completely, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. In the same moment, the two sounds perhaps overlapping, you flinch, your entire body jerking out of sheer surprise as your back collides with your entry table with enough force that its corners dent the wall behind it.

Ribbed with dark red scales, plated in thick armour, and illuminated by a pulsing blue light, Nero's right arm is completely inhuman.

Demonic, even.

It hits you now why he couldn't tell anybody else, not even those he cares for the most: all his life he'd been scorned for being different. For having no parents. For having white hair. For having a kind of strength and spirit beyond that of somebody, _anybody_ his age. For so long, he was treated almost as inhuman.

And with this arm, he really may be just as they'd feared - monster now in both name and appearance.

What will happen to him from here?

It pulses with a steady light, fading now from that gentle blue glow to a frantic red as Nero launches into a stuttered, hastened explanation. Because on your face is the fear he sees on everybody else's, and he knows far too well, far too intimately, far too _personally_ , what comes afterward. "I– I don't know what happened. Kyrie was attacked and I felt… I had to… I couldn't let anything happen to her. And my arm started to itch and itch and itch and I kept scratching and then it changed–"

The rest of his frenzy falls away when he suddenly finds his face held firmly between your hands, the warmth there so much more comforting than the latent heat that radiates from his new arm. "Nero, stop," you try to sound firm despite all of this, wrenching that spark of fear from within yourself and casting it away, because no matter what, _you cannot be afraid of him_ , "I know what you're thinking, and I'm not going to turn you away. Neither of us really belong here, but we'll do that together."

You glimpse a telling sheen over his eyes before he looks down, blinking rapidly in an attempt to dispel it and salvage the parts of himself that are still holding together. Your hands slip from his face when the air settles, and your eyes fall back onto his arm. It's a chilling sight, something that will take you just a minute longer to get used to, but you know Nero. And thus, you also know that whatever that arm is, it's just as honest and sincere as the rest of him.

You're certain of it.

Because when you cautiously touch it, gently and only with the very tips of your fingers, it transitions from a panicked red back to that calming blue as he opens his hand to you. Soft and soothing is its light.

"Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll talk properly, okay?"

"...yeah."

* * *

Without the dried blood cracking all over his skin, the demon muck in his hair, and his grimy clothes from a day on the run from people who are supposed to be his allies stuffed into a bag for later, Nero feels much more at ease. To the point where he could laugh, albeit with a twinge of bitterness, at how worried and afraid he was. He sits now, on a stool at your kitchen counter, a spare towel draped over his shoulders to catch stray droplets from his damp hair. He'd questioned, with cocked brow and wry smile, why you even had any men's clothing in your house (and inwardly, to himself, why they seemed about Credo's size), but you silenced him with a look.

"Not the time, yeah, I know."

He does file that away for later though.

"So what actually happened today? There was the attack in the forest… I heard Josh didn't make it." The question has been perched upon the tip of your tongue ever since you opened your door to him, but you never found the right moment to give them form. Nero was far too worn then, too worked up. But with no stench of demon blood hanging over him, washed down the drain with hot water and soap, you think he's better equipped to tell you now.

"Yeah, the Assaults ambushed him. Wasn't his fault. I got there just in time." Nero breathes out, resigned. "I was so worried - never felt like that before, ever. And that's when I felt this… sort of burning inside me. Kinda like a fever, but… only in here–" he gestures with one hand over his chest, "–thought it was just a heat of the moment thing, you know? But then my arm started to itch really bad. And scales started popping up like blisters and I freaked out."

Pausing in your work to wrap his new arm in a thick layer of obscuring bandages, you give his arm a reassuring pat, to which Nero replies with a wan smile.

"Guess I sorta panicked after that, because, like. I had no idea what was happening to me. The itching kept getting worse, more scales kept growing, my arm started to _glow_. I didn't want anyone to see what was happening, because I thought– you know…" You _do_ know. "...so I kept running and hiding. All day. Until I thought to come here."

"And I'm glad you did."

"Yeah," he admits quietly, swiping the crook of his left arm over his nose, "me too."

The next few minutes are spent in a comfortable silence, listening to the ambience of the city outside; the distant sounds of the Port Caerula; soft chatter of passerbys. Even the passive sounds of your modest home provide a glimmer of peace. And then finally:

"We'll keep it like this for now," you say, fastening several elastic clips over the bandages now wrapped securely around his arm. It took four entire rolls to cover every last inch of it, and more than a handful of attempts to properly wrap between and around his fingers without causing discomfort, but several mugs of tea later, you're giving him a pat on the back even though you did most of the work. "If anybody asks, you say you broke it during the attack."

"I can't rely on that excuse forever though." Now that the moment has passed, the adrenaline drained from his system, the exhaustion from such an emotionally charged day has well and truly sunk in. "Can't still be nursing a broken arm three months from now."

"I know… but it'll give us some time to think about what we can do." You busy yourself with putting the rest of your supplies away as you talk, gathering scattered gauze and rubbing alcohol and placing it back into the box. "I remember some blueprints for some kind of armour floating around. Never really went beyond the prototype stage, since the R and D department turned their attention towards…" ' _the Biancos'_ , you almost say aloud, but that kind of talk is neither here nor there. The secret of Nero's arm is not the only one you've sworn to keep. "Ah, it doesn't really matter. But it's a full sleeve that you can wear over your arm - gauntlet, upper and lower vambrace, and a paldron. I think if we say that your Red Queen packs too much of a punch for you to swing, I can try and get word in to Credo that having that might help offset some of that force. What do you think?"

"It sounds... great!" For the first time since he'd arrived, Nero sounds animated. "Except…"

You frown. "Except?"

"I'm a lefty. I use Red Queen with my left hand, and…" he half raises his bandaged arm in its sling with a tired, crooked smile. His bandaged _right_ arm.

You're only pretending to be annoyed when you fold your arms over your chest, more relieved than anything else now that he seems to be returning to his usual self; sarcastic and cheeky. "Well if you have any suggestions, I'm all ears, wise guy."

Nero laughs softly, chest so warm that he could almost cry. Ah, he must really be exhausted if he's thinking like that. "Nah, it's good. I'm good. I can work with that."

When Nero turns his eyes on you again, you feel, with an overwhelming notion, that you understand exactly why Credo's parents chose to foster him; there is a deep and profound kindness that lives within him. All it needed was a little guidance.

"Thank you."

Even though he hates it, he lets you ruffle his hair as you reply easily. Simply: "Birds of a feather, remember?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My maternal instincts shine through so hard whenever I write about my best sonboy. 😤😤 I CARE HIM


End file.
